


I Wanna Fuck You Like I'm Never Gonna See You Again

by Mike_H



Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series, Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25513294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mike_H/pseuds/Mike_H
Relationships: Asami Ryuuichi/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	I Wanna Fuck You Like I'm Never Gonna See You Again

Asami tastes like iron, smells like gun smoke, like expensive cigarettes.

Madara shouldn't know this, but he does.

He knows it the way he knows the roughness of the wall against his back, Asami's grip vise-like upon his nape. Knows Asami's kiss, the sharp, spicy flavor of him, a brand upon Madara's tongue.

Asami's touch, like a thief, taking.

  


* * *

  


It begins as it always does.

The penthouse suite on the highest floor of the Shuraton Bay. Keycard in Madara's hand. His grip tightens around it, the way nervousness tightens in his gut. He is equal parts thrilled and terrified.

He isn't supposed to be here. Shouldn't be doing this. There is a part of him that knows this is wrong, but it feels right in all its _wrongness._

He places the card into the slot. Opens the door and steps inside.

Madara leaves his shoes by the entrance. Drapes his jacket over the armchair in the living room. He can feel his heart beat more frantically with each button of his shirt he unfastens.

He wants a drink, badly, but does not allow himself the diversion. He makes his way to the bedroom.

Knows Asami will be there, waiting.

  


* * *

  


There is something oddly vulnerable about this, half-dressed and cornered, kissed in the way that makes Madara feel like he's being taken apart, only to be reassembled and broken, again and again.

He is letting Asami do this, and yet —

Asami takes, heedless of what Madara wants.

No, that's not right. Asami is perceptive, keenly so. Anticipates what Madara wants and needs even before Madara realizes it himself.

Asami takes because he can. Because _letting him_ has nothing to do with it. Because it is in his nature.

Asami kisses like a demand. Takes like he's owed. His lips leave Madara's. His fingers dig unkindly into the flesh of Madara's neck.

"Strip and get on the bed," Asami commands.

All Madara can do is obey.

  


* * *

  


The sheets are shockingly cold. Or perhaps, that's simply because he's so warm. Madara half-sits, half-lies upon the bed, annoyed and very aroused.

Asami still has all his clothes on.

He takes his time with them, loosening the knot of his tie, unbuttoning his cuffs. The smirk upon his face is equal parts grating and a turn-on.

It makes Madara reach down, grasp his own cock. He strokes himself to the sight of Asami removing his tie, his shirt, his belt; more impatience than a tease.

Asami's eyes darken knowingly. Smugness upon his face. Madara wants to punch and kiss him. He's not sure which he wants more.

Asami's fingers, unfastening his pants. The unfurling of his zipper is infuriatingly slow. Madara tracks its movement, swallowing, anticipating.

His breath hitches. His hand tightens, quickens around his cock.

Asami's eyes, diamond-hard, upon him. _"Stop."_

A shiver runs up Madara's spine. His hand ceases all motion, moves to grip the sheets instead. He is flushed, panting. He does not look away.

Asami's smirk widens. "Good boy." He pulls his pants off. His boxers, with them.

His cock is a beautiful thing. Madara has seen it, has had it in his hands, his mouth, his ass countless times, and still the sight of it arrests him. The head of Asami's cock, glistening with precum. The skin of his thick shaft, the vein that runs beneath. His balls, heavy between his thighs.

Pleasure jolts through Madara. Runs all along his spine, his cock. His lips part. His legs widen.

Asami smiles.

  


* * *

  


He would never get used to this.

Asami's fingers are thick, ungentle, slick with lube inside him. Two of them at once, splitting Madara open. Pain rattles up and down his spine. He doesn't want this. Wants it too much, wants _more._ Hates and loves it, this intrusion, twisting inside him, spreading, spreading.

A third finger. Madara keens, body tensing, uncertain if he's trying to push Asami out or hold him there. He wants Asami's cock. _Needs_ it.

"Asami — " Madara gasps. "Please — I want — "

Asami's mouth, upon his. His fingers, so deep, brushing Madara's prostate.

Madara's eyes go wide. His scream is muffled against Asami's kiss. His body arches up. He can feel Asami's large cock, brushing against his thigh. His own cock, trapped between their bellies.

Asami's tongue, caressing Madara's own, hot, electric. Madara's fingers come to tangle in Asami's hair. He tugs, needy, insistent.

Asami pulls away, pulls his fingers out of Madara. "Turn around."

Madara complies. He braces his forehead upon his arms. Raises his ass.

Asami's hand, along his spine. His fingers, a teasing dance along each vertebra. His palm, warm and rough against the curve of Madara's ass.

Then, the head of his cock, pushing in.

Madara moans. It's a long, low thing, expelled from him as Asami moves, deeper, deeper. Madara can't help but tremble. It's overwhelming, the sensation of Asami, splitting him open. The fullness of it. Heat, scorching him from the inside out.

Asami, fully sheathed inside him. His hands, upon Madara's hips. He pulls out, slams back in.

A sharp cry spills from Madara's lips. His arms buckle beneath the strain. Precum leaks from his cock onto the sheets. He aches. Wants to touch himself, craves Asami's hand upon him. Still, he resists. He won't touch himself unless Asami commands it.

Asami's thrusts are rough, violent. Taking, always taking, like the self-centered predator he is. There is a viciousness in the possessive grips of his fingers around Madara's hips, the glide of his cock inside, the weight of his gaze that Madara is all too keenly aware of.

He turns his head, cheek pressed against the bed, to meet that gaze.

Asami's eyes, gold-flecked brown, alight with lust. He leans forward, strong arms wrapping around Madara's torso, pulling Madara against him. His breath is hot against the shell of Madara's ear.

_"Beautiful."_

Asami says this, and Madara knows — there is nothing sweet about it. Asami says it like poison, like mockery, like _filth._ No romance in the way he holds Madara close. No shred of love in his touch.

His fingers close around Madara's nipple, pinching hard. Madara cries out, back pressing closer against Asami's chest, wanting more.

Asami releases him. He shoves Madara onto the sheets. A hand upon his nape, holding him down.

He quickens his thrusts.

Madara screams, spit leaking onto soft cotton. So much heat, inside, all over. His cock is painfully hard. His balls are warm, suffused with pleasure. He likes the way Asami's balls slap against his with each harsh thrust, the obscene sound of them.

Asami's grip is so hard, Madara knows there would be bruises upon his skin tomorrow. He would wear them, this twisted trophy, hidden beneath the fall of his hair. Would feel them with every brush of his hair, the collar of his shirt against his skin. And he would think of this moment.

Of Asami, holding him down, taking, taking, taking.

Asami loosens his hold. His hand comes to tangle in Madara's hair instead, yanking his head upward and back. His thrusts are sharp, more frantic now.

So much pleasure, racing through Madara's veins. His skin is aflame with it. His body aches with so much need, he wants to claw his way out of his own skin just so he could have a moment's respite.

But he does not want this to stop.

Asami's cock, hitting that spot inside Madara that makes him scream, over and over. The world fades out. There is only _Asami_ — inside him, upon him, filling his awareness so completely, there is room for none else.

Asami's hand, a tight fist around Madara's hair, pulling. "Madara," Asami says, nothing but dominance in his tone. _"Come."_

Madara does.


End file.
